02-12-2025, 09:11 PM
NEXT MISSION
Location: Private palace compound, outskirts of Karachi, Pakistan
Target: Zoko “The Wolf” Al-Mansour, 48, half-Saudi half-Yemen terrorist financier, architect of three attacks on Indian soil that killed 312 civilians.
Cover: High-end Lebanese escort “Layla” booked through a discreet Dubai agency used by Gulf princes and warlords alike.
Omar Al-Khalidi, 29, Belgian-Moroccan crypto-millionaire, needed arm candy for Zoko’s private birthday celebration. He contacted an agency, the agency quoted €75,000 for the night plus “whatever happens after.”
I took the job as Layla. Accent perfected in Beirut safehouses, French-Arabic lilt, smoky kohl eyes, the kind of body that makes men forget their own names.
I fly in on Omar’s private Gulfstream, wearing a floor-length black abaya over the actual dress so the cabin crew don’t faint. Thirty-four thousand feet above the Arabian Sea, Omar watches me change in the bedroom suite like a starving man.
He is beautiful in the way predators sometimes are: sharp cheekbones, gym-thick shoulders, Armani tux cut perfectly over a shoulder holster.
When we land at a private airstrip outside Karachi, I step off the plane in the real outfit: emerald-green silk gown, backless to the base of my spine, slit up the left leg almost to the hip. No bra. No panties (just a thin gold chain around my waist). Heels high enough to be weapons. Hair in loose waves, lips oxblood red.
Omar’s pupils blow wide.
“Jesus, Layla.”
I trail one finger down his tux lapel. “You paid for the best, habibi. Try to keep up.”
The palace is a fortress disguised as Arabian Nights fantasy: white marble, fountains, armed guards in tailored suits pretending to be waiters. Oud and hashish smoke hang thick in the air. Russian models, Yemeni dancers, Chinese gamblers, African warlords. Everyone here has blood on their ledger.
Zoko, surrounded by bodyguards who could probably bench-press a tank.
He is smaller than the photos: maybe five-ten, but dense with muscle under the white thobe. Salt-and-pepper beard trimmed sharp eyes. Gold-rimmed glasses that cost more than most people’s houses.
He watches me the moment I walk in on Omar’s arm.
Omar greets him in Arabic, kisses cheeks, presents me like a trophy.
“This is Layla. Beirut. She’s… very exclusive.”
Zoko’s gaze slides over me slowly, clinical, then hungry.
“Exclusive things are meant to be shared, Omar.” His voice is soft, almost gentle. The kind of voice that orders village massacres over breakfast.
He extends a hand. I place my hand in his, let him raise my hand to his lips. He kisses once, then turns it over and presses another kiss to my palm, lingering, tongue just barely tasting my skin.
“Welcome to my home, little bird.”
My pulse doesn’t even flutter. Inside, raven is taking mental photographs of every exit, every guard rotation, the position of the panic room door behind the waterfall feature.
But Layla smiles, lowers thick lashes. “They told me you collect beautiful things, Sayyid Zoko. I hope I don’t disappoint.”
He laughs quietly. “Come. Sit beside me.”
Omar looks momentarily put out (he paid for me, after all) but Zoko’s word is law here. I’m guided to the cushion on Zoko’s right. Omar takes the left, trying not to sulk.
The night unfolds in layers of smoke and sin.
Hookah laced with something stronger. Champagne that costs thousands a bottle. Dancers in diamond body chains grinding to slowed-down remixes.
Zoko’s hand rests possessively on my bare lower back the entire time, thumb tracing idle circles just above the curve of my ass. Every time I laugh at one of his stories (and I do laugh, throaty and real, because he is actually funny in a terrifying way), his fingers dip a fraction lower.
Omar gets drunker, louder, starts pawing at a Russian girl on his other side.
Zoko watches me watch Omar, amused.
“Men who buy women always lose them eventually,” he murmurs in French. “Would you like to be lost tonight, little bird?”
I tilt my head, let my hair spill over one shoulder, exposing the line of my throat.
“I was promised the full Karachi experience,” I answered in the same language, voice husky. “I’m told you are the city.”
His eyes darken. He snaps his fingers. A bodyguard appears instantly.
“Take Omar to the blue suite. Make sure he is… entertained.”
Omar protests, but two polite, iron-hard hands guide him away. Zoko stands, offers me his hand.
“Come.”
I take it.
He leads me through corridors lit by flickering lanterns, past closed doors where moans and laughter spill out. We stop at a heavy wooden door. His private quarters.
Inside: low divans, silk rugs thick enough to fuck on for hours, a wall of screens showing CCTV feeds from every corner of the compound.
He locks the door. Turns to me.
“Take off the dress.”
I reach behind my neck, unhook the single clasp. The silk whispers down my body and pools at my feet. I step out of it, naked except for the gold chain, the emerald plug, and six-inch heels.
Zoko circles me slowly, predator assessing prey.
When he’s behind me he stops. I feel his breath on my nape.
“You are very calm for a woman alone with me.”
I glance back over my shoulder. “Should I be scared?”
He smiles, and it is not kind.
“Every woman who comes here should be scared. The ones who aren’t… interest me more.”
His hand settles on my throat from behind (not squeezing, just owning). The other slides between my legs, and finds my wet pussy.
He groans when he feels how wet I am.
“Already ready for me.”
I arch into his touch. “I was ready the moment you kissed my hand.”
Two thick fingers push inside me without warning. I moan, real and raw. He curls them, finds the spot that makes my knees buckle, and works it mercilessly while his thumb circles my clit.
I come in under thirty seconds, biting my lip hard enough to taste blood so I don’t scream loud enough to bring guards.
He spins me, pushes me down onto the divan on my back. Kneels between my thighs and spreads me open like a feast.
The first lick is slow, deliberate, from entrance to clit. The second is hungrier. By the third I have fistfuls of his thobe and I’m grinding against his beard like a woman possessed.
He eats me like he’s starving (no finesse, just raw, filthy hunger) until I come again, thighs clamped around his head, heels digging into his back.
Only then does he stand, unfasten his thobe.
His cock is thick and heavy. A scar runs along the underside (old knife wound). He rolls on a condom with practiced efficiency, then drags me to the edge of the divan and thrusts into the root in one brutal stroke.
I cry out (part pain, part pure fucking bliss). He doesn’t give me time to adjust, just starts pounding into me with a rhythm that rattles the divan against the floor. One hand pins both my wrists above my head. The other grips my throat just hard enough to make my pulse spike.
“Look at me,” he growls.
I do. Black eyes locked on mine while he fucks me so hard my breasts bounce painfully, he spits on my clit, rubs it in vicious circles.
“Come again. I want to feel you milk me.”
I do (shattering, screaming his name like it’s a prayer and a curse).
That tips him over. He buries himself deep, groans long and low, cock pulsing inside me even through the latex.
After that he doesn’t pull out immediately. Just stays inside me, thumb stroking my throat almost tenderly.
“You will stay the night,” he says. Not a request.
I trace the scar on his chest. “I was hoping you’d insist.”
He carries me to the bed (actual bed this time, silk sheets, no restraints tonight). Fucks me twice more: once slow and almost romantic, missionary, kissing me deep while he moves inside me like he’s trying to brand my soul; once from behind, brutal and animal, spanking my ass red, pulling my hair until I see stars, coming on my back when the condom breaks and he decides he doesn’t care.
At 4:17 a.m. I’m curled against his chest, his arm heavy around my waist, his breathing deep and even.
The CCTV feeds glow softly across the room. I memorise every screen, every guard post, every blind spot.
Phase one complete: Zoko now has a weakness shaped like me.
The day after Karachi
I wake in his Karachi bed at 6:12 a.m., Zoko is already dressed (crisp white thobe again, Rolex glinting under the cuff). He is watching me with the stillness of a man who has decided something dangerous while I slept.
“Get dressed,” he says softly. “We’re leaving in forty minutes.” and use this, he gave me a butt plug.
I stretch, let the sheet fall away from my breasts on purpose. Bite marks and fingerprints decorate my skin like jewellery. “Leaving for where?”
He smiles (small, almost shy, and that is new).
“You’ll see.”
Forty minutes later I’m on his Gulfstream again, this time wearing one of his oversized linen shirts and nothing underneath. He sits across from me, reading reports on a tablet, but every few minutes his eyes flick up to watch the shirt ride higher on my thighs.
We land in Dubai at 9:03 a.m. local time.
A convoy of black G-Wagons whisks us into the city. He has booked the entire top floor of the Burj Al Arab (the Royal Suite, two storeys, gold everything, views that make gods jealous).
Breakfast on our private terrace. He feeds me strawberries dipped in gold leaf and watches my mouth like it’s the only thing in the world worth worshipping.
Then he does something no intelligence file ever predicted.
He takes me shopping.
Not bodyguard shopping. Not “stay in the car” shopping.
He walks beside me holding my hand.
He walks through narrow lanes glittering with 22-karat bangles, greeting shopkeepers by name, laughing at their jokes, letting old Emirati women pinch my cheeks and tell him I’m too beautiful to be real.
He buys me things because he wants to see them on me, not because they cost money.
A 40-lakh emerald choker.
A pair of diamond anklets that sing when I walk.
A sheer black abaya embroidered with real gold thread that he says he wants to fuck me in later.
Every time I try on something new, he stands outside the curtain, arms folded, eyes soft in a way that should terrify me more than his gun ever did.
By noon we’re in the spice souk. He buys me saffron and oud and rose petals, then pulls me into a tiny alley, presses me against a wall older than both our countries, and kisses me slow and filthy while tourists flow around us like water.
No one dares tell him to stop.
His tongue is in my mouth, his hand under my skirt stroking me over the plug until I’m trembling, when he whispers against my lips, “I cancelled three meetings for this. I never cancel meetings.”
I laugh into his kiss. “They’ll have to blow something up without you today.”
He bites my lower lip (punishment and promise). “Tonight I will blow you up instead.”
In the afternoon he rented an entire boat just for us. We sail the Creek at sunset, wind in my hair, his arm around my waist, Dubai’s skyline bleeding gold and violet behind us. He tells me about his mother (Yemeni poet who died when he was twelve). About the first man he killed at fifteen. About how nothing has ever felt clean since.
I listen. I say almost nothing. I let him talk himself into loving me.
Dinner is on the 122nd floor of Burj Khalifa. He has booked the entire place again. Just us, the city a thousand feet below, and a violinist he flew in from Vienna.
He is nervous.
Zoko (the Wolf) is nervous.
Halfway through the main course he reaches across the table and takes my hand.
“I want you to stay,” he says, voice low. “Not one night. Not one week. Stay.”.
Outside, Layla’s eyes fill with tears I do not have to fake.
“Zoko…” I breathe his name like it hurts. “Men like you don’t keep women like me. You rent us. You use us. Then you disappear.”
He stands, circles the table, pulls me up into his arms right there between the lobster and the gold-dusted dessert.
“I disappeared the moment I tasted you,” he says against my temple. “I’m tired of disappearing.”
He kisses me in front of the violinist, in front of the waitstaff who pretend not to see, in front of the entire fucking city glittering below us like a promise neither of us believes in.
Later, back in the Royal Suite, he makes love to me like a man trying to fuse souls.
He undresses me slowly (kisses every bruise he left in Karachi like he’s apologising and bragging at the same time). Carries me to the bed, spreads me out on gold silk sheets, and goes down on me for what feels like hours (slow, worshipful licks, against my clit until I come twice just from his tongue and the devotion in his eyes).
When he finally slides into me (bare, no condom, nothing between us), he groans like dying.
“So tight… so perfect… made for me”
I wrap my legs around his waist, take him deeper, and let him fuck me gentle and deep and endless. He keeps whispering my fake name like a prayer (Layla, Layla, Layla) while I rake nails down his back hard enough to scar.
We came together the first time (quiet, shattering, his face buried in my neck, my ankles locked at the small of his back, his cock pulsing so deep I feel it in my womb).
The second time he takes me from behind in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights painting our reflection (his hand over my mouth to muffle my screams, the other rubbing my clit until I squirt down both our thighs while he empties himself inside me again with a broken sound that is almost a sob).
After, he holds me like I’m fragile. Traces the diamond anklets with reverent fingers.
“I’ll burn the world before I let you leave,” he murmurs into my hair.
I kiss the scar on his chest and smile against his skin.
Good.
Let him fall harder.
We are sprawled across the ruined bed at 2:17 a.m., city lights strobing gold and violet across sweat-slick skin.
He has come inside me three times already (twice in my pussy, once down my throat while I knelt between his knees). My thighs are sticky, my lips swollen, the diamond anklets he fastened around me hours ago now the only thing I’m still wearing.
Zoko props himself on one elbow, tracing lazy circles around my nipple with the hand that has ended hundreds of lives. His eyes are softer than I have ever seen them (dangerously soft).
“I was going to wait,” he says, voice rough from screaming my name. “Do it properly. A ring,. But I can’t wait anymore.”
He reaches under the pillow (I didn’t even see him hide it) and produces a small black velvet box.
Inside: a solitaire the size of a gunshot wound, flawless, set in blackened platinum. Blood diamond, probably. I love it instantly.
He slides it onto my left ring finger while I’m still trying to remember how to breathe.
“Marry me, Layla.”
Not a question. A command from a man who has never asked for anything in his life.
I stare at the ring, then at him, and let tears (real ones) spill over.
“Yes,” I whisper. “God, yes.”
He kisses me so hard our teeth clash, then flips me onto my stomach like I weigh nothing.
“I need to claim all of you tonight,” he growls against my ear. “Every single part.”
I already know what he wants. He’s been circling it for hours (fingers slick with my wetness teasing the plug, tongue tracing the rim when he ate me from behind, dark promises whispered while he was buried balls-deep in my pussy).
I push up onto my knees, spread myself for him, look back over my shoulder.
“Then take it, babyi. I’m yours.”
He makes a sound like a dying man and practically rips the emerald plug free. Cool air kisses my stretched hole; I shiver.
He disappears for ten seconds (comes back with a bottle of chilled oud-scented oil). Pours it straight from my tailbone down the cleft of my ass, watching it drip over my pussy and onto the gold sheets.
Then his mouth is on me.
Not teasing. Devouring.
He spreads my cheeks wide and licks my asshole like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted (long, wet, filthy strokes, tongue pushing inside, fucking me with it while two fingers slide into my dripping pussy and curl hard). I scream into the pillow, push back, beg in three languages.
He keeps going until I’m shaking, until I come just from his tongue in my ass and his fingers hitting that spot inside me over and over.
Only then does he rise up behind me.
He’s huge (always is after he’s been eating me), cock angry-red, slick with pre-cum and my juices. He presses the head against my loosened ring.
“Breathe, little bird.”
I do.
He pushes.
The stretch is perfect agony. I’ve taken men here before (rough, quick, transactional), but never like this. Never with someone who is shaking with the effort of going slow, who is whispering my name like a prayer.
Inch by inch he sinks into me until his hips meet my ass and we both stop breathing.
Then he starts to move.
Slow at first (long, deep strokes that make me feel impossibly full). His hand snakes around to rub my clit in tight circles. The other fists my hair, arching my back so he can bite the nape of my neck.
“Mine,” he snarls against my skin. “This too. All of it. Forever.”
I can’t speak (only broken moans and sobs of pleasure). He picks up speed, pounding now, the slap of his hips against my ass loud and obscene. Every thrust nudges the ring on my finger, reminding me what I just promised.
He spits on where we’re joined (once, twice), then reaches down and spreads it, making me even slicker, filthier.
I come first (a violent, full-body seizure that clamps my ass around him so hard he shouts). My pussy gushes onto his balls, onto the sheets, everywhere.
That breaks him.
He slams in to the root and unloads (hot, endless pulses deep in my ass while he roars my name and bites down on my shoulder hard enough to bruise for weeks).
He stays inside me after, both of us trembling, his chest heaving against my back. Slowly he pulls out; I feel his cum start to leak immediately. He pushes it back in with two fingers, possessive, tender.
I collapse onto my stomach. He collapses on top of me, still half-hard, kissing the bite mark he just left.
We lie like that for a long time, ring glittering on my finger, his cum dripping out of my ruined ass, Dubai sparkling outside like it was built just to witness this.
Eventually he rolls us so I’m dbangd across his chest. His fingers trace the diamond on my hand like he still can’t believe I said yes.
“Tomorrow,” he murmurs into my hair, “we fly to Sana’a. I want you to meet what’s left of my family. My mother’s grave. My sisters. They need to see the woman who finally tamed the wolf.”
I press a soft kiss to the scar on his chest and smile against his skin.
Location: Private palace compound, outskirts of Karachi, Pakistan
Target: Zoko “The Wolf” Al-Mansour, 48, half-Saudi half-Yemen terrorist financier, architect of three attacks on Indian soil that killed 312 civilians.
Cover: High-end Lebanese escort “Layla” booked through a discreet Dubai agency used by Gulf princes and warlords alike.
Omar Al-Khalidi, 29, Belgian-Moroccan crypto-millionaire, needed arm candy for Zoko’s private birthday celebration. He contacted an agency, the agency quoted €75,000 for the night plus “whatever happens after.”
I took the job as Layla. Accent perfected in Beirut safehouses, French-Arabic lilt, smoky kohl eyes, the kind of body that makes men forget their own names.
I fly in on Omar’s private Gulfstream, wearing a floor-length black abaya over the actual dress so the cabin crew don’t faint. Thirty-four thousand feet above the Arabian Sea, Omar watches me change in the bedroom suite like a starving man.
He is beautiful in the way predators sometimes are: sharp cheekbones, gym-thick shoulders, Armani tux cut perfectly over a shoulder holster.
When we land at a private airstrip outside Karachi, I step off the plane in the real outfit: emerald-green silk gown, backless to the base of my spine, slit up the left leg almost to the hip. No bra. No panties (just a thin gold chain around my waist). Heels high enough to be weapons. Hair in loose waves, lips oxblood red.
Omar’s pupils blow wide.
“Jesus, Layla.”
I trail one finger down his tux lapel. “You paid for the best, habibi. Try to keep up.”
The palace is a fortress disguised as Arabian Nights fantasy: white marble, fountains, armed guards in tailored suits pretending to be waiters. Oud and hashish smoke hang thick in the air. Russian models, Yemeni dancers, Chinese gamblers, African warlords. Everyone here has blood on their ledger.
Zoko, surrounded by bodyguards who could probably bench-press a tank.
He is smaller than the photos: maybe five-ten, but dense with muscle under the white thobe. Salt-and-pepper beard trimmed sharp eyes. Gold-rimmed glasses that cost more than most people’s houses.
He watches me the moment I walk in on Omar’s arm.
Omar greets him in Arabic, kisses cheeks, presents me like a trophy.
“This is Layla. Beirut. She’s… very exclusive.”
Zoko’s gaze slides over me slowly, clinical, then hungry.
“Exclusive things are meant to be shared, Omar.” His voice is soft, almost gentle. The kind of voice that orders village massacres over breakfast.
He extends a hand. I place my hand in his, let him raise my hand to his lips. He kisses once, then turns it over and presses another kiss to my palm, lingering, tongue just barely tasting my skin.
“Welcome to my home, little bird.”
My pulse doesn’t even flutter. Inside, raven is taking mental photographs of every exit, every guard rotation, the position of the panic room door behind the waterfall feature.
But Layla smiles, lowers thick lashes. “They told me you collect beautiful things, Sayyid Zoko. I hope I don’t disappoint.”
He laughs quietly. “Come. Sit beside me.”
Omar looks momentarily put out (he paid for me, after all) but Zoko’s word is law here. I’m guided to the cushion on Zoko’s right. Omar takes the left, trying not to sulk.
The night unfolds in layers of smoke and sin.
Hookah laced with something stronger. Champagne that costs thousands a bottle. Dancers in diamond body chains grinding to slowed-down remixes.
Zoko’s hand rests possessively on my bare lower back the entire time, thumb tracing idle circles just above the curve of my ass. Every time I laugh at one of his stories (and I do laugh, throaty and real, because he is actually funny in a terrifying way), his fingers dip a fraction lower.
Omar gets drunker, louder, starts pawing at a Russian girl on his other side.
Zoko watches me watch Omar, amused.
“Men who buy women always lose them eventually,” he murmurs in French. “Would you like to be lost tonight, little bird?”
I tilt my head, let my hair spill over one shoulder, exposing the line of my throat.
“I was promised the full Karachi experience,” I answered in the same language, voice husky. “I’m told you are the city.”
His eyes darken. He snaps his fingers. A bodyguard appears instantly.
“Take Omar to the blue suite. Make sure he is… entertained.”
Omar protests, but two polite, iron-hard hands guide him away. Zoko stands, offers me his hand.
“Come.”
I take it.
He leads me through corridors lit by flickering lanterns, past closed doors where moans and laughter spill out. We stop at a heavy wooden door. His private quarters.
Inside: low divans, silk rugs thick enough to fuck on for hours, a wall of screens showing CCTV feeds from every corner of the compound.
He locks the door. Turns to me.
“Take off the dress.”
I reach behind my neck, unhook the single clasp. The silk whispers down my body and pools at my feet. I step out of it, naked except for the gold chain, the emerald plug, and six-inch heels.
Zoko circles me slowly, predator assessing prey.
When he’s behind me he stops. I feel his breath on my nape.
“You are very calm for a woman alone with me.”
I glance back over my shoulder. “Should I be scared?”
He smiles, and it is not kind.
“Every woman who comes here should be scared. The ones who aren’t… interest me more.”
His hand settles on my throat from behind (not squeezing, just owning). The other slides between my legs, and finds my wet pussy.
He groans when he feels how wet I am.
“Already ready for me.”
I arch into his touch. “I was ready the moment you kissed my hand.”
Two thick fingers push inside me without warning. I moan, real and raw. He curls them, finds the spot that makes my knees buckle, and works it mercilessly while his thumb circles my clit.
I come in under thirty seconds, biting my lip hard enough to taste blood so I don’t scream loud enough to bring guards.
He spins me, pushes me down onto the divan on my back. Kneels between my thighs and spreads me open like a feast.
The first lick is slow, deliberate, from entrance to clit. The second is hungrier. By the third I have fistfuls of his thobe and I’m grinding against his beard like a woman possessed.
He eats me like he’s starving (no finesse, just raw, filthy hunger) until I come again, thighs clamped around his head, heels digging into his back.
Only then does he stand, unfasten his thobe.
His cock is thick and heavy. A scar runs along the underside (old knife wound). He rolls on a condom with practiced efficiency, then drags me to the edge of the divan and thrusts into the root in one brutal stroke.
I cry out (part pain, part pure fucking bliss). He doesn’t give me time to adjust, just starts pounding into me with a rhythm that rattles the divan against the floor. One hand pins both my wrists above my head. The other grips my throat just hard enough to make my pulse spike.
“Look at me,” he growls.
I do. Black eyes locked on mine while he fucks me so hard my breasts bounce painfully, he spits on my clit, rubs it in vicious circles.
“Come again. I want to feel you milk me.”
I do (shattering, screaming his name like it’s a prayer and a curse).
That tips him over. He buries himself deep, groans long and low, cock pulsing inside me even through the latex.
After that he doesn’t pull out immediately. Just stays inside me, thumb stroking my throat almost tenderly.
“You will stay the night,” he says. Not a request.
I trace the scar on his chest. “I was hoping you’d insist.”
He carries me to the bed (actual bed this time, silk sheets, no restraints tonight). Fucks me twice more: once slow and almost romantic, missionary, kissing me deep while he moves inside me like he’s trying to brand my soul; once from behind, brutal and animal, spanking my ass red, pulling my hair until I see stars, coming on my back when the condom breaks and he decides he doesn’t care.
At 4:17 a.m. I’m curled against his chest, his arm heavy around my waist, his breathing deep and even.
The CCTV feeds glow softly across the room. I memorise every screen, every guard post, every blind spot.
Phase one complete: Zoko now has a weakness shaped like me.
The day after Karachi
I wake in his Karachi bed at 6:12 a.m., Zoko is already dressed (crisp white thobe again, Rolex glinting under the cuff). He is watching me with the stillness of a man who has decided something dangerous while I slept.
“Get dressed,” he says softly. “We’re leaving in forty minutes.” and use this, he gave me a butt plug.
I stretch, let the sheet fall away from my breasts on purpose. Bite marks and fingerprints decorate my skin like jewellery. “Leaving for where?”
He smiles (small, almost shy, and that is new).
“You’ll see.”
Forty minutes later I’m on his Gulfstream again, this time wearing one of his oversized linen shirts and nothing underneath. He sits across from me, reading reports on a tablet, but every few minutes his eyes flick up to watch the shirt ride higher on my thighs.
We land in Dubai at 9:03 a.m. local time.
A convoy of black G-Wagons whisks us into the city. He has booked the entire top floor of the Burj Al Arab (the Royal Suite, two storeys, gold everything, views that make gods jealous).
Breakfast on our private terrace. He feeds me strawberries dipped in gold leaf and watches my mouth like it’s the only thing in the world worth worshipping.
Then he does something no intelligence file ever predicted.
He takes me shopping.
Not bodyguard shopping. Not “stay in the car” shopping.
He walks beside me holding my hand.
He walks through narrow lanes glittering with 22-karat bangles, greeting shopkeepers by name, laughing at their jokes, letting old Emirati women pinch my cheeks and tell him I’m too beautiful to be real.
He buys me things because he wants to see them on me, not because they cost money.
A 40-lakh emerald choker.
A pair of diamond anklets that sing when I walk.
A sheer black abaya embroidered with real gold thread that he says he wants to fuck me in later.
Every time I try on something new, he stands outside the curtain, arms folded, eyes soft in a way that should terrify me more than his gun ever did.
By noon we’re in the spice souk. He buys me saffron and oud and rose petals, then pulls me into a tiny alley, presses me against a wall older than both our countries, and kisses me slow and filthy while tourists flow around us like water.
No one dares tell him to stop.
His tongue is in my mouth, his hand under my skirt stroking me over the plug until I’m trembling, when he whispers against my lips, “I cancelled three meetings for this. I never cancel meetings.”
I laugh into his kiss. “They’ll have to blow something up without you today.”
He bites my lower lip (punishment and promise). “Tonight I will blow you up instead.”
In the afternoon he rented an entire boat just for us. We sail the Creek at sunset, wind in my hair, his arm around my waist, Dubai’s skyline bleeding gold and violet behind us. He tells me about his mother (Yemeni poet who died when he was twelve). About the first man he killed at fifteen. About how nothing has ever felt clean since.
I listen. I say almost nothing. I let him talk himself into loving me.
Dinner is on the 122nd floor of Burj Khalifa. He has booked the entire place again. Just us, the city a thousand feet below, and a violinist he flew in from Vienna.
He is nervous.
Zoko (the Wolf) is nervous.
Halfway through the main course he reaches across the table and takes my hand.
“I want you to stay,” he says, voice low. “Not one night. Not one week. Stay.”.
Outside, Layla’s eyes fill with tears I do not have to fake.
“Zoko…” I breathe his name like it hurts. “Men like you don’t keep women like me. You rent us. You use us. Then you disappear.”
He stands, circles the table, pulls me up into his arms right there between the lobster and the gold-dusted dessert.
“I disappeared the moment I tasted you,” he says against my temple. “I’m tired of disappearing.”
He kisses me in front of the violinist, in front of the waitstaff who pretend not to see, in front of the entire fucking city glittering below us like a promise neither of us believes in.
Later, back in the Royal Suite, he makes love to me like a man trying to fuse souls.
He undresses me slowly (kisses every bruise he left in Karachi like he’s apologising and bragging at the same time). Carries me to the bed, spreads me out on gold silk sheets, and goes down on me for what feels like hours (slow, worshipful licks, against my clit until I come twice just from his tongue and the devotion in his eyes).
When he finally slides into me (bare, no condom, nothing between us), he groans like dying.
“So tight… so perfect… made for me”
I wrap my legs around his waist, take him deeper, and let him fuck me gentle and deep and endless. He keeps whispering my fake name like a prayer (Layla, Layla, Layla) while I rake nails down his back hard enough to scar.
We came together the first time (quiet, shattering, his face buried in my neck, my ankles locked at the small of his back, his cock pulsing so deep I feel it in my womb).
The second time he takes me from behind in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights painting our reflection (his hand over my mouth to muffle my screams, the other rubbing my clit until I squirt down both our thighs while he empties himself inside me again with a broken sound that is almost a sob).
After, he holds me like I’m fragile. Traces the diamond anklets with reverent fingers.
“I’ll burn the world before I let you leave,” he murmurs into my hair.
I kiss the scar on his chest and smile against his skin.
Good.
Let him fall harder.
We are sprawled across the ruined bed at 2:17 a.m., city lights strobing gold and violet across sweat-slick skin.
He has come inside me three times already (twice in my pussy, once down my throat while I knelt between his knees). My thighs are sticky, my lips swollen, the diamond anklets he fastened around me hours ago now the only thing I’m still wearing.
Zoko props himself on one elbow, tracing lazy circles around my nipple with the hand that has ended hundreds of lives. His eyes are softer than I have ever seen them (dangerously soft).
“I was going to wait,” he says, voice rough from screaming my name. “Do it properly. A ring,. But I can’t wait anymore.”
He reaches under the pillow (I didn’t even see him hide it) and produces a small black velvet box.
Inside: a solitaire the size of a gunshot wound, flawless, set in blackened platinum. Blood diamond, probably. I love it instantly.
He slides it onto my left ring finger while I’m still trying to remember how to breathe.
“Marry me, Layla.”
Not a question. A command from a man who has never asked for anything in his life.
I stare at the ring, then at him, and let tears (real ones) spill over.
“Yes,” I whisper. “God, yes.”
He kisses me so hard our teeth clash, then flips me onto my stomach like I weigh nothing.
“I need to claim all of you tonight,” he growls against my ear. “Every single part.”
I already know what he wants. He’s been circling it for hours (fingers slick with my wetness teasing the plug, tongue tracing the rim when he ate me from behind, dark promises whispered while he was buried balls-deep in my pussy).
I push up onto my knees, spread myself for him, look back over my shoulder.
“Then take it, babyi. I’m yours.”
He makes a sound like a dying man and practically rips the emerald plug free. Cool air kisses my stretched hole; I shiver.
He disappears for ten seconds (comes back with a bottle of chilled oud-scented oil). Pours it straight from my tailbone down the cleft of my ass, watching it drip over my pussy and onto the gold sheets.
Then his mouth is on me.
Not teasing. Devouring.
He spreads my cheeks wide and licks my asshole like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted (long, wet, filthy strokes, tongue pushing inside, fucking me with it while two fingers slide into my dripping pussy and curl hard). I scream into the pillow, push back, beg in three languages.
He keeps going until I’m shaking, until I come just from his tongue in my ass and his fingers hitting that spot inside me over and over.
Only then does he rise up behind me.
He’s huge (always is after he’s been eating me), cock angry-red, slick with pre-cum and my juices. He presses the head against my loosened ring.
“Breathe, little bird.”
I do.
He pushes.
The stretch is perfect agony. I’ve taken men here before (rough, quick, transactional), but never like this. Never with someone who is shaking with the effort of going slow, who is whispering my name like a prayer.
Inch by inch he sinks into me until his hips meet my ass and we both stop breathing.
Then he starts to move.
Slow at first (long, deep strokes that make me feel impossibly full). His hand snakes around to rub my clit in tight circles. The other fists my hair, arching my back so he can bite the nape of my neck.
“Mine,” he snarls against my skin. “This too. All of it. Forever.”
I can’t speak (only broken moans and sobs of pleasure). He picks up speed, pounding now, the slap of his hips against my ass loud and obscene. Every thrust nudges the ring on my finger, reminding me what I just promised.
He spits on where we’re joined (once, twice), then reaches down and spreads it, making me even slicker, filthier.
I come first (a violent, full-body seizure that clamps my ass around him so hard he shouts). My pussy gushes onto his balls, onto the sheets, everywhere.
That breaks him.
He slams in to the root and unloads (hot, endless pulses deep in my ass while he roars my name and bites down on my shoulder hard enough to bruise for weeks).
He stays inside me after, both of us trembling, his chest heaving against my back. Slowly he pulls out; I feel his cum start to leak immediately. He pushes it back in with two fingers, possessive, tender.
I collapse onto my stomach. He collapses on top of me, still half-hard, kissing the bite mark he just left.
We lie like that for a long time, ring glittering on my finger, his cum dripping out of my ruined ass, Dubai sparkling outside like it was built just to witness this.
Eventually he rolls us so I’m dbangd across his chest. His fingers trace the diamond on my hand like he still can’t believe I said yes.
“Tomorrow,” he murmurs into my hair, “we fly to Sana’a. I want you to meet what’s left of my family. My mother’s grave. My sisters. They need to see the woman who finally tamed the wolf.”
I press a soft kiss to the scar on his chest and smile against his skin.
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